Love, Chloe - Alessandra Torre Page 0,45
it?”
I closed my eyes and tilted my face up, turning into all of the sounds that my city ears tuned out. The muted beat of someone’s bass. The splash of a puddle as a taxi drove by. The rumble of the subway underneath our feet. The soft music of an open window, a dozen stories up. Somewhere, a dog barked. “Yeah.”
“You know, you’re different than I expected.”
I stopped listening to the sounds of the city and turned to him, our hands still linked. “In what way?”
“I don’t know.” He looked away, back up at the sky. “I’m still figuring that out.”
“Good luck.” I let out a soft laugh. “I’m still figuring that out too.”
That couldn’t have made sense to him, it didn’t make much sense to me, but he said nothing, just stepped forward, toward our building. I followed, us moving quietly through the fog, my face damp by the time we took the steps to our building.
The elevator stopped and I was surprised when he held open the door of the elevator and didn’t get off on my floor.
“I had a great time tonight.” He leaned against the elevator door, keeping it open.
“Me too. Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for inviting me.” Great. We had manners down pat.
“Have a good night.” He reached forward and pulled gently at my jeans. Dragged me close enough for one short kiss. Way too short of a kiss. I almost frowned when it ended but saved face, flashing him a parting smile and turning away. I walked toward my door and said a silent curse when I heard the elevator door close.
Damn the man. When I wanted him, he left me hanging. When I didn’t want him, he wormed his way into my thoughts and stayed there. I stepped into my apartment and shut the door. I never remembered to bitch at him about his three weeks of silence after our hookup. I’d had plans, concocted during our walk to the bar, to politely tell him off. Let him know that three weeks of silence after going down on a girl could give her a complex. It wasn’t too late. I could still go up and put him in his place. Straighten him out.
I sat on the couch and pulled my shoes off, pushing aside any excuses to go upstairs. One side effect of starting to find myself? I could decipher my own bullshit.
New York City loved its parties. And the rich of the city loved to throw them, each soiree an excuse to flaunt their wealth while exhausting their staff. As an NYU student, I was all for a good party. As Nicole Brantley’s personal bitch, I was learning to hate them. Chanel’s birthday, I thought I’d be able to manage, had actually gotten excited by the thought, envisioning a party so perfectly executed that puppy attendees would leave with their minds permanently blown.
I forgot this was upper crust New York.
I forgot this was Nicole Brantley.
I forgot that I had absolutely no party experience in anything other than looking hot and slinging back expensive champagne.
But this was Chanel’s birthday party, and I had confidence on my side. So surely it would be fabulous. It had to be. All the best bitches would be there. No, literally. The Best Bitches. We’re talking top-notch AKC pedigree.
I fell down the rabbit hole, into the world of canine couture and pup-arazzi and tenderloin-topped cakes. I spent two hours on the phone with a bitchy assistant, trying to get Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (he’s a PUPPET in case you weren’t aware) to give me a firm RSVP. I sweated over an Anthony Rubio original for Chanel that arrived two sizes too big and two days late. And Nicole wasn’t helping.
“You know this is her big day,” Nicole said to me impatiently, as if I wasn’t putting Chanel’s interests first. “Did the Shankmans confirm? They have a Labradoodle that Chanel really got along well with. She’ll be crushed if he doesn’t attend.”
I looked up from my laptop and over at Chanel, who was licking her crotch with some serious focus, and tried to find a response that didn’t involve me tossing my laptop aside and screaming at the top of my lungs.
Now, with the party over, I’d come to grips with reality. I was not going to be the poster mother that I always planned on being. You know the type, moms who carried everything anyone needed, all fitting neatly in a designer purse. The ones who hosted sleepover